


Poor Show

by wickersnap



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Everyone Is Alive, Fluff, M/M, canon timeline who, implied codywan bc everyone has to be happy, me slamming my hands on the table: boyfriend sweater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26614399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickersnap/pseuds/wickersnap
Summary: It's only one piece of clothing, but already Rex is attached to it like no other thing he owns.Well, he's a clone. Clones don't really own anything.
Relationships: CT-7567 | Rex/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 10
Kudos: 208





	Poor Show

**Author's Note:**

> hmm this is stupid but I do love them

Rex would like it to be known that when he first picked it up, it had simply been because it had _been_ there. It wasn’t because he had wanted it, or wanted to show off or make some sort of ill-advised claim. He did want all of the above, of course he did, but those weren’t his reasons at the time. It had just been so easy, and he had been tired.

Rex had been shivering, actually, just out of the ’fresher and towelling the remaining sheen of water from his shoulders. He’d looked around for something to put on and had seen it—hanging innocently over the back of the desk chair, as carelessly left as any of the General’s clothes. Rex had looked between it and his blacks and decided _fuck it,_ he did _not_ want to bother faffing around struggling to pull damp skin through skintight neoprene, not tonight, and had picked it up. 

The first thing he had noticed was how soft it was. Smooth and silky under his touch but just rough enough in weave to retain a natural warmth. It was one of his General’s thicker tunics, substantial and with a high neck and long sleeves. Pretty much perfect, in other words, to fold himself into and pretend he was anywhere other than a single day away from their next campaign.

He hadn’t really thought much of it as he’d pulled it on, only relishing the novelty of having fabric so soft against his skin, until it had stretched and pulled across his face. That, _that_ was when he had made the incredible decision to inhale gently, to take in its scent as it slipped down to settle around his neck; it smelled of home. There was smoke there, woodsmoke, incense, the smell of fried circuitry and burning clankers. It had the slightly-different scent that everything seemed to take on during hyperspace flight, clinging to the threads like they thrived there among the stars. It smelled of burnt citrus and engine oil, of cedar and spice and desert-hot sand, and… 

And Rex had sighed, long and comfortable and content, and slipped under the sheets of not-his cot to curl around General Skywalker’s back. Anakin had hummed his agreement and leaned back into him, grinning palpably through Rex’s tenuous-at-best connection to the Force. Rex had smiled and slung an arm around his waist and buried his nose in his General’s flyaway hair, and had sunk slowly, deeply, and wholly pleasurably into the first proper sleep he’d been able to snatch in the past four days.

He hadn’t thought much of it after that, but that same tunic, somehow, finds its way into his locker now. Rex knows he hadn’t taken it out of Anakin’s quarters. He _knows_ that the cleaning droids don’t make these kinds of mistakes. Anakin doesn’t say anything about it (and neither does General Skywalker), so Rex, in a spike of selfishness, shrugs to himself and doesn’t mention it.

Within the tenday it’s his favourite sleep shirt, and within the month it finds a permanent home in his bed. No matter how many times he slips it into the General’s washing it _always_ ends up back in his quarters, and it makes him rather glad he isn’t sharing berths with any others.

He forgets about it for a while, sinking into the routine as quickly as he had the odd nights in definitely-not-his-cot. If Rex were to be described as anything other than _competent_ or _ruthlessly efficient,_ he’s quite certain it would be _highly adaptable._

So he doesn’t think about it during the day, the little secret he holds close to his heart, just his. He doesn’t think about it on duty. He doesn’t think about it in the commissary or the gym, because by then he has many more pressing things to worry about. He doesn’t think about it when Ghost Company berth with the _Resolute_ or when the men are arm wrestling for honour over the com panels. In fact, he doesn’t think about it at all until he’s back in his quarters with a worn-out Cody and a bottle of cheap brandy they definitely don’t officially possess between them. Cody’s eyes keep straying to the bed in the corner, and Rex is almost having to fight off sleep before he even notices, wondering if Cody’s tired, wondering if he forgot to make it that morning—unlikely, the last time he did he’d only learnt how a handful of cycles before—and turns around to look.

“Ah,” he says, when the innocent, highly incriminating blue tunic stares back at him from its folded pile on his pillow.

Cody snorts and picks up the bottle, holding it aloft. “Kenobi and Skywalker,” he says, and takes a swig.

“Kenobi and Skywalker,” Rex mumbles, taking the bottle when it’s offered and taking his own long drink.

Cody doesn’t stay with him that evening, and Rex says nothing of it. Instead he sneaks through the halls, just on the right side of tipsy and with his vision turning white at the edges, and slips into bed behind the warm body that’s always there to welcome him in.

“Was wonderin’ when you’d get in,” Anakin yawns. “Missed you. Obi-Wan and Commander Cody rubbing it in my face.”

“Hardly,” Rex snorts. “Wouldn’t say we’re much better.”

Anakin hums lazily and snakes his arms around Rex’s middle. “Obi-Wan gets away with everything.”

And maybe it’s inevitable that it’s Rex’s closest friends who ruin the secret, even if it is by accident. _Technically_ it’s Rex’s fault, Kix and Echo tease, snickering behind their hands. If he’d been where he was supposed to be, _when_ he was supposed to be, then no one would be any the wiser.

Rex can’t even argue.

It’s Jesse who plucks up the courage to knock on the General’s door at stupid o’clock in the sleep cycle. And of course it’s Rex, still a little drunk and spoiling his sleeping nexu of a boyfriend, who opens the door.

“Yes?” he says, still dragging a lethargic hand down his face.

“Captain!” Jesse gasps. Behind him, Echo seems to be choking on his own spit. “Just the person we were looking for!”

The slightly wild grin stretching his lieutenant’s face is, apparently, the miracle sobering drug he’s been looking for. Rex freezes in the doorway and glares, stony-faced, as he tries to stomp down on his silent panic. He takes in the feel of not-his tunic against his skin, and knows, just _knows_ that both of them have a clear view past him into the room, and probably even right through _him_.

Well, they were bound to find out at some point.

“Can I _help you,_ Lieutenant?”

If possible, Jesse merely seems to grin _wider._ “Ah, we were wondering if we could have a little help with something?”

“I swear, if this is something you don’t actually need me for…” Rex sighs and rubs his hands over his face again. “Two minutes. I’ll be with you in two minutes.”

“Right away, Rex.”

“Nh?” Anakin says from the bed. 

Rex waves him off when he tries to sit up and reaches for his blacks, hanging on the chair. “K’uur, cyare, just go back to sleep. Fives’s probably got his foot stuck in the toilet again. Or someone else’s.”

“Hmm,” Anakin replies, sinking back into the pillow without argument. “Don’t get wet.”

The corners of Rex’s mouth twitch up. “I won’t.” He picks up his uppers and then puts them down again, quickly deciding that regs be fucked, if he’s in this far already he might as well stick it out. 

Jesse and Echo are whispering loudly to each other outside the door when he opens it again, one eyebrow raised dangerously in the hopes that they might still take his threats seriously after this.

“So,” Jesse says, falling into step beside him. “Nice evening?”

Rex isn’t too much of a pansy to admit he got Wolffe to teach him all the best places to sink an elbow into for a _reason._ Jesse makes more of a wounded noise than Rex thinks is strictly necessary, and it seems to just spur Echo on.

“Not a word,” he says. “Either of you.”

He really ought to teach his boys how to laugh behind his back _discreetly._

**Author's Note:**

> Come cry with me about these guys over on [tumblr!](https://silverxsakura.tumblr.com/)


End file.
